Let’s discuss the Elegy Written in a Country Churchard (1751, see the link here to the full poem). Thomas Gray (1716-71) spends years composing and refining the 128-line masterpiece. The subsequent centuries saw the poem garner a reputation as one of the magnificentest elegies in the English language - though not in the traditional elegiac sense of mourning one person and involving convocations to deities with incense, but rather lamenting the general condition of persons dead and exploring the range of virtuous to felonious human character and ways of being.
One introduction to the elegy also lauds it as one of the more quoted. Though I ask, quoted by anyone in particular beyond literature circles or subsequently inspired products which I evidently have not come about? For however much it upsets me, I don’t find many contemporaries to read poetry, less quote. Anyway, impertinences aside.
My initial reading attempts two years back caused some shedding of tears: tears of incompetence. And it since demanded several revisits to reach a stage to adequately capture the intricate multi-stanzaic constructs and the idioms, which now come nearly effortless.
It’s not a question of time period, the poem fairly modern by all reasonable standards. It’s the compact framework within which Gray assembles inexhaustible imagery, allusions and stark emotion at a remarkable level of aesthetic expression.
To put it plainly, the elegy is one of the more evocative English-language neoclassic mid-length poems I’d read yet.
And cursed be the attempt to curtail the likes of it to any translation. Which I may as well sustain with the customary naivety and relentlessness across any poetry. For if you do come upon such a pitiable product, pray you not read the original, lest the prospect spoil your degustation apparatus.
I recently read the Жуковский (Vasily Andreyevich Zhukovsky, 1783—1851) translation (Сельское кладбище, 1802), chronologically the first in the anthology of 19th century Russian poetry I here have. It was the second run through the translation: the first the more impactful having not yet come under the spell of Gray’s original. For judged independently, Жуковский produced a decent Romanticism staple.
But juxtaposing the two, the Russian blandness subdues the baroqueness of the original. What Grey confined to a pentameter, Жуковский stretches to a hexameter, further amplifies with female endings, all the while failing to convey the same amount of imagery within the added verbosity, hardly a trace of Gray’s idiomatic richness and naught of the energy.
I would fain deconstruct each stanza side by side, this possibly the sole case I thus scrupulously chartered each tract of an original poem and a translation (which I almost universally abandon). Let’s see where this leads.
[G]
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day;
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea;
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
[Ж]
Уже бледнеет день, скрываясь за горою;
Шумящие стада толпятся над рекой;
Усталый селянин медлительной стопою
Идет, задумавшись, в шалаш спокойный свой.
The metaphors, gone, the idioms, annihilated, the texture, torn.
[G]
Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
[Ж]
В туманном сумраке окрестность исчезает…
Повсюду тишина; повсюду мертвый сон;
Лишь изредка, жужжа, вечерний жук мелькает,
Лишь слышится вдали рогов унылый звон.
Too verbose. Solemn stillness towers over the tasteless тишина and мертвый сон. Gone, the beetle’s wheeled droning flight. Унылуй звон mocks the drowsy lulling tinklings.
[G]
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
[Ж]
Лишь дикая сова, таясь под древним сводом
Той башни, сетует, внимаема луной,
На возмутившего полуночным приходом
Ее безмолвного владычества покой.
Less metaphors, inferior imagery. The moping owl? The ivy-mantled tow'r? Finito.
[G]
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
[Ж]
Под кровом черных сосн и вязов наклоненных,
Которые окрест, развесившись, стоят,
Здесь праотцы села, в гробах уединенных
Навеки затворясь, сном непробудным спят.
Likewise gone the mould'ring heap, the narrow cells, and the rude Forefathers of the hamlet. Idiomatic genocide.
[G]
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
[Ж]
Денницы тихий глас, дня юного дыханье,
Ни крики петуха, ни звучный гул рогов,
Ни ранней ласточки на кровле щебетанье —
Ничто не вызовет почивших из гробов.
The cock’s shrill clarion? The echoing horn? Swallow twitt'ring? Incense-breathing morn. They call it imagery for due reason.
[G]
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
[Ж]
На дымном очаге трескучий огнь, сверкая,
Их в зимни вечера не будет веселить,
И дети резвые, встречать их выбегая,
Не будут с жадностью лобзаний их ловить.
Major entropy of expression. The burning blazing hearth plows over ‘трескучий огнь’. No room for the busy housewife, I gather. And I quiet prefer the lisping and knee climbing.
Recess …
If I so continue, we’d never see the end of it. So in respect for brevity, I’ll emphasize the beauty of Gray’s version with but sparse allusions to Жуковский for the sake of academic insight.
[G]
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th'inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
The boast of heraldry, pomp of pow'r, the paths of glory (a noteworthy expression): beautiful constructs.
Skipping some stanzas …
Each Gray’s line, a distinct image. Each Жуковский line, a near sacrilege.
[G]
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.
[Ж]
Ах! может быть, под сей могилою таится
Прах сердца нежного, умевшего любить,
И гробожитель-червь в сухой главе гнездится,
Рожденной быть в венце иль мыслями парить!
Incomparable to a heart pregnant with celestial fire, the swaying of the rod, or the ecstasy of the living lyre. Although, гробожитель-червь в сухой главе гнездится, мыслями парить: exceptionally reasonable.
[G]
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
[Ж]
Но просвещенья храм, воздвигнутый веками,
Угрюмою судьбой для них был затворен,
Их рок обременил убожества цепями,
Их гений строгою нуждою умерщвлен.
Though reasonable Жуковский’s variant, it lacks the compact energy of Gray’s metaphors: Knowledge’s ample page, Penury’s noble rage, the soul’s genial current.
[G]
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
[Ж]
Как часто редкий перл, волнами сокровенной,
В бездонной пропасти сияет красотой;
Как часто лилия цветет уединенно,
В пустынном воздухе теряя запах свой.
Бездонная пропасть doesn’t evoke the “dark unfathom’d caves of ocean”. ‘Цветет уединенно’ pales to ‘born to blush unseen’.
[G]
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
[Ж]
Быть может, пылью сей покрыт Гампден надменный,
Защитник сограждан, тиранства смелый враг;
Иль кровию граждан Кромвель необагренный,
Или Мильтон немой, без славы скрытый в прах.
‘… with dauntless the little tyrant … withstood’ outwits the amateurishly sounding ‘защитник сограждан, тиранства смелый враг’. And ‘mute inglorious Milton’ prevails in the compactness. This whole Russian stanza sounds awkward to this ear.
[G]
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
[Ж]
Отечество хранить державною рукою,
Сражаться с бурей бед, фортуну презирать,
Дары обилия на смертных лить рекою,
В слезах признательных дела свои читать —
Того им не дал рок; но вместе преступленьям
Он с доблестями их круг тесный положил;
Бежать стезей убийств ко славе, наслажденьям
И быть жестокими к страдальцам запретил;
Таить в душе своей глас совести и чести,
Румянец робкия стыдливости терять
И, раболепствуя, на жертвенниках лести
Дары небесных Муз гордыне посвящать.
So much for brevity …
The above three stanzas flow as one autonomous unit. Again, stronger metaphors in the original. ‘Their lot forbade’ incomparable to ‘того им не дал рок’. More powerful emotion in ‘Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne’ over the counterpart. Likewise concerning the gates of mercy on mankind': the alternative lacking literary garment. And the same with ‘the struggling pangs’, ‘the blushes of ingenuous shame’, ‘the shrine’, the ‘incense kindling at the Muse’ … superior constructs to the Russian.
[G]
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
[Ж]
Скрываясь от мирских погибельных смятений,
Без страха и надежд, в долине жизни сей,
Не зная горести, не зная наслаждений,
Они беспечно шли тропинкою своей.
‘Madding crowd’s ignoble strife’ triumphs over ‘мирских погибельных смятений’. ‘The cool sequester’d vale of life’ better garnishes than the sorry ‘в долине жизни сей’.
And ‘noiseless tenor’ is the king of the crop: no equivalently impactful counter to be found in the translation.
[G]
...
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
...
[Ж]
...
С непышной надписью и резьбою простою,
...
Continuation of the same tale.
[G]
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
[Ж]
Любовь на камне сем их память сохранила,
Их ле́та, имена потщившись начертать;
Окрест библейскую мораль изобразила,
По коей мы должны учиться умирать.
‘Их память’ is no substitute for the unletter’d muse. And ‘That teach the rustic moralist to die’: too bloody good. Next to ‘По коей мы должны учиться умирать’?!
[G]
...
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?
[Ж]
...
И взора томного назад не обращал?
I get goosebumps over “longing, ling'ring” every time. But ‘взора темного’ …
Skipping some stanzas, for I’m running a few humble words short:
[G]
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
[Ж]
Быть может, селянин с почтенной сединою
Так будет о тебе пришельцу говорить:
«Он часто по утрам встречался здесь со мною,
Когда спешил на холм зарю предупредить.
Hoary-headed swain vs селянин. Peecan of dawn, brushing with hasty steps, to meet the sun: compacter, yet sharper.
[G]
"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
[Ж]
Там в полдень он сидел под дремлющею ивой,
Поднявшей из земли косматый корень свой;
Там часто, в горести беспечной, молчаливой,
Лежал, задумавшись, над светлою рекой;
Compare the ‘nodding beech’, the wreathing old fantastic roots, or his listless length stretched over the babbling brook to the artless ‘под дремлющею ивой’, ‘косматый корень’, or ‘лежал над светлою рекой’.
[G]
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
[Ж]
Нередко ввечеру, скитаясь меж кустами, —
Когда мы с поля шли и в роще соловей
Свистал вечерню песнь, — он томными очами
Уныло следовал за тихою зарей.
Note the superiority of “mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove”, ‘drooping’ and the alliterative “craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopeless love”.
Skipping more stanzas:
[G]
"The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
[Ж]
Наутро пение мы слышим гробовое…
Несчастного несут в могилу положить.
Приблизься, прочитай надгробие простое,
Чтоб память доброго слезой благословить».
‘Несут в могилу положить’ sounds sterile next to “thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.” Same with ‘приблизься, прочитай надгробие простое’ next to the witty “Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay”.
Let’s leave it at that. I’ve no further energy to proceed into the epitaph.
It appears this comparative analysis takes a graver tone than the underlying elegy. Not my original intent. You and I both better read the original Gray’s version a couple of times to wash the sour aftertaste.
Questions, comments? Connect.